


until morale declines

by dirtiersocks



Category: Original Work
Genre: Breathplay, Double Penetration in One Hole, Gang Rape, Human Fucktoy, M/M, Mind Break, Objectification/Dehumanization, Rape Victim is not aroused, Torture, Wishing for death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtiersocks/pseuds/dirtiersocks
Summary: Don's been undercover scouting the gang operations of the notorious and scary Jim Kelly. Unfortunately, Don's slipped up, and now Jim - and his gang - have him as a prisoner.





	until morale declines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryontop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryontop/gifts).



> hey cherryontop! I really hope you enjoy this. I enjoyed your prompts a lot and hope I've balanced your suggested tags well. thanks for being a great exchange participant.

Don wakes up woozy, blinking against a bright light, and goes to raise his hands to cover his face before he realises that they're locked at his side. He feels the familiar sharpness of handcuffs biting into his wrists and he's suddenly wide awake, heart pounding, but he manages to keep his eyes half-closed, blinking awake artistically. 

He's sitting in a chair, hands cuffed to bars at the back. His feet are tied to the legs, he suspects with duct tape, and a bright light is pointing at him, blindingly. Eyes watering, he can't see much of the rest of the room, but it's dark; he jerks in the chair and it rocks, sounding like metal on concrete. He takes a breath to say something, and chokes on what feels like a bundle of wet cloth in his mouth, spluttering. 

"He's awake," someone says behind him, and he hears people moving around. Someone gets a grip in his hair and drags his face up, and then he's staring into the face--oh, god--of Jim Kelly, notorious criminal, mob leader, voted guy-most-likely-to-brutally-murder-anyone-who-pisses-him-off 5 years running in informal cop gossip. Don hasn't yet had any contact with him, has only been infiltrating his crew for six months so far, but had promised his handler, Kim, he'd be getting eyes-on within a month. Of course, he wasn't expecting to be tied to a chair when it happened.

"Donny, Donny, Donny," Jim says, shaking Don's head with the hand in his hair so Don feels himself wince and tear up. "This isn't how I was hoping to meet you."

Don mumbles something and gets backhanded, a stinging slap. 

"You'll be talking soon," Jim promises, "but not now. Now I talk. Do you know what we do to cops around here, Don?"

Don feels himself flush with terror, tries to say, urgently, "I'm not a cop," and gets smacked again. 

"We know you are, Don, and we know you're supposed to meet with your handler soon. In fact, if you tell us all about it, this will all be over soon. If not …" Jim smiles at him, promising. "If not, well, you're going to be here for a while. That's a promise." He steps back from Don, waves to someone. "Get him ready."

*

They strip him naked and tie him to a table, cover him with electrodes and then Drew, a guy Don had thought was a friend, comes over and takes the gag out of his mouth. "You should just tell him, Don," Drew says, gently. "Tell him and it'll be quick." Drew looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, all blonde curls and blue eyes, looking at Don all concerned. 

Last month Drew had told Don all about what had happened to the last cop Jim had caught. Don had known about the beatings, had guessed about the torture from the autopsy - before he'd signed up to come and infiltrate Jim's crew he'd gone through every scrap of evidence about how the gang worked. He hadn't expected the other things Drew described, though, the way the guy had been raped by the gang, kept as a toy for weeks after he'd given up all the information he had, fucked and toyed with. Drew had described it matter-of-factly, veering into obscenity just once, describing Jim holding the guy over a full bathtub, fucking him and drowning him, letting him breathe only occasionally. "He didn't even know anything by then," Drew said. "Jimmy likes to have his fun, though, and god, the guy was a tight fuck." He'd shrugged. "After that, though, he was pretty useless, not even fun to push around any more, so we got rid of him pretty quick." 

Don tries not to remember this conversation, says to Drew, "Please - I'm not a cop - can't you tell him?"

Drew shakes his head and raises a hand, and the electrodes light up - pain, pain flashing through him, and Don comes back to himself and realises he's been screaming.

"It's really better if you don't lie," Drew tells him, and then he's backing away and Jim is coming over to Don, smiling. 

"Let's get started, shall we?" he says. 

*

Some time later, Don doesn't know how long, they take him off the table and drag him into a smaller room, dark and nearly empty, with a dirty mattress in one corner and a lidded bucket in another. Don, hoarse from screaming and shaking, struggles when they pin him down to the mattress, fights until they tie him up, and then goes still, tries, desperately, to check out of his body.

He's brought back brutally, again and again, as Jim hits him a few times, focusing on his bruises; as Jim grabs a fistful of his hair and makes Don look at him before spitting on his face; as Jim lines up behind him, as he feels the blunt head of Jim's cock pushing at his entrance. "Take it, cop," Jim says, and Don tries not to listen. "Fuck, boys, he's so tight," and it's like it's a cue for everyone in the room to whistle and whoop as Jim forces his dick into Don. Don starts struggling again, can't help it, but it does nothing; Jim just laughs, and pushes harder until he's fully seated inside Don. He feels huge, blunt and hot and violating; Don feels sick, furious, ashamed as the other guys surround him, leering down at him, watching Jim fuck him into the mattress.

"This is what happens to cops," Jim says, between thrusts. "This is what happens to traitors. This is what'll happen to you until you tell us about your partner," and Don spits out, "Fuck you," and Jim just laughs. "Wrong way round, fuckhole," and then Jim's grabbing his hips and pulling Don back against him and fucking him and fucking him and fucking him until Jim groans, and Don feels him spurting hot inside, pulling out to finish on Don's ass. 

The guys clap and cheer as Jim drags Don around to show them his come-covered ass, pulling his cheeks apart; Don cringes as he feels come leak out of him. "Who's next?" Jim says, and shoves Don over on his side. 

Next is a guy Don doesn't know, with short dark hair and a blank face, who has Don on his back and is shoving into him in seconds. He's brutally efficient, uses Don for 10 quick thrusts before he comes and rolls off him; Don can check out, go away, unlike the next guy, a freckled redhead who makes up for a small dick Don can barely feel at this point by slapping at Don's limp dick and balls periodically, jerking him out of a fantasy about being on a beach, by himself somewhere, skiing alone on a mountain. "Yeah," the guy says, seeing Don's face crumple, "Yeah, feel it, fucking feel it, feel me fucking your hole, feel my big dick, take it, take it, does that hurt, hurt, bitch," on and on until he slaps Don again, thrusts in one more time and comes, yanking out of Don so abruptly Don whimpers. 

The next guy is Drew, and seeing the familiar face has Don struggling again. Drew just shakes his head at him, eases his cock in. It's long; Don feels it where he hasn't felt anything yet, tries to wriggle away. "This is you now, Don," he says, not unkindly. "This is what you're for: hurting and fucking. The sooner you accept it and tell us everything, the sooner it'll be over." 

So that's fucking awful; Don tries not to look at him, turning his face away until Drew finishes, but that gives someone an idea, and someone else he doesn't know comes over to him and tries to shove some kind of gag in his mouth. Don closes his lips, firmly, so they pinch his nose shut until he has to breathe, gasps and they get fingers in his mouth, levering his jaw apart until they can fit the gag in and strap it behind his head. It's an open gag, stretching his jaw painfully, keeping his teeth out of the way, and it becomes very clear to Don what it's for as the guy kneels over him on the mattress and starts to fuck his face. 

He stops being able to tune out for a while after that, choking and gagging and struggling to breathe as the man fucks his face carelessly. He's followed by another guy who apparently likes to hold Don's face down and feel him gagging around his dick. By now Don doesn't know who's fucking him. His face is wet with tears and come, his eyes are blurred, he can barely see anything any more, let alone enough to tell who's fucking him. Don barely notices the guy fucking him coming, getting replaced by someone else, who comes in his turn and high-fives the guy fucking his face. "He goes fucking tight when he can't breathe," the guy says. "Good one, Jay," and Jay says something Don can't hear and fucks into Don's throat.

It goes on for a while. Towards the end Don thinks some guys have gone twice; his ass is burning and when the last guy pulls out he feels it gaping, cringes away from the thought. He's covered in come all over, has long since stopped struggling or trying to pull away, and it's a while before he realises that nobody's fucking him or choking him, that in fact nobody's in the room any more, that he's lying alone and unrestrained on the filthy mattress. Come is drying stickily on his face, his chest, his back, his thighs, dribbling out between his legs. He drags himself up, looks around. Over by the bucket there's a bowl; when he investigates, crawling over and feeling dried come crack on his skin, it's full of water, and he scoops up handfuls to drink before dumping the rest over himself and trying, helplessly, to clean himself up as much as he can. When he's done, he crawls over to the mattress, whimpering helplessly when he moves; it feels like every part of his body is bruised, inside and out, and he finds the cleanest, driest spot on the mattress to lie on and lets sleep take him away as quickly as he can.

*

It happens all over again the next day, and the day after that. At least Don thinks it's days; he hasn't seen daylight since he woke up woozy. The pain ramps up; Jim tries electricity, knives, plays around with waterboarding like he's some kind of fucking power-tripping intelligence operative; some part of Don's brain, the part he's sectioned off and is trying to keep as safe as possible, is scornfully amused, even as the rest of him is crying, sobbing really, begging for air, begging for it to stop. Jim just shakes his head, tells Don he'll stop when he has the answers he wants and hits him again.

The rapes, Don thinks, can't really get worse, but somehow they prove him wrong on that, too. It's easier, he learns, if he goes along, lies still, clenches when they tell him to, crawls when they tell him to, lets them fuck his face without biting. Jim's not always around for that bit, though he's always there when they're torturing him, and sometimes when he's away they'll even lube Don up if he does what he's told; he finds himself pathetically grateful for that, grateful when one of them feeds him something other than the tasteless mush they usually give him. 

He tells himself he's going along to preserve his energy, to preserve as much of his health as he can, to preserve his willpower so he can keep denying Jim the information he's after. The longer he can do that, he tells himself, the longer Kim will have without contact, the more chances Kim will have to realise what's happened to him, to get out of danger, to - he hopes, faintly, a hope that dwindles by the hour - get Don himself help. But still, every time he does what he's told, bends over willingly, lies still to be fucked, he feels something inside himself cringe away and die. The next day he always struggles again; it makes the pain worse, but at least he feels like himself.

*

Eventually he cracks. It's been, he's almost sure, weeks now. He'll have missed check-in after check-in after check-in; Kim will have had warning, and Don can't take it any more, the pain, the humiliation, crawling, being fucked over and over again. Jim has him face-down in a bucket of water half-filled with ice cubes and is fucking him, in a sick echo of Drew's stories. Don's heart is pounding, adrenaline shrieking through his body, he can't breathe, he can't fucking breathe, like a fist in his chest. Jim pulls Don's head out of the water just when he thinks he's going to pass out and says, almost gently, "Come on, Don. If you just tell me what I need to know, this can all be over quickly."

Don, coughing and spluttering and sobbing with the need for air, feels something in himself crack as Jim shifts his grip to force his face back down. "Kim," he says, almost screams. "My handler's name is Kim, we meet at the Blue Diner on Wednesdays, I don't know anything else about him, please, please stop hurting me, please, I'll tell you everything you need to know."

Jim's grip shifts again in Don's hair, holds him up, and someone's swiftly coming in, taking the bucket away so Jim can lower Don to the ground. Jim pulls out gently - the first time he's ever done it gently - and then someone's wrapping Don in a blanket, easing him onto a chair so Jim can sit down in front of him, pat his knee, and say, "That's very good, Don. Why don't you tell me all about it?", and Don, shivering, does. 

*

He thinks it'll be over soon when Jim nods at him, having extracted all the information he wants, and leaves. It'll take some time to verify his information, and prays desperately that Kim will be safe, that someone will have alerted his family, but it won't be long, he thinks, before he'll be washing up in the river himself. He should be frightened, he supposes. Instead he's just tired. He doesn't want to die, at least he doesn't think so, but he doesn't see another way out, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep going.

*

They don't kill him, though. The pain stops. They start feeding him more than just slops from time to time, start letting him out of the tiny room sometimes, under supervision. Someone gives him a blanket and a towel and he's actually allowed to keep them. It should be better. But apparently Drew and the others aren't sick of fucking him yet, and now that he's not saving his energy for Jim, Drew tells him, he's much more fun to fuck. 

"You're wriggling more again," Drew says, approvingly, and shoves into Don's throat hard. "We could keep you around a little," and they do. He gets woken in the night when someone wants a fuck and fucked over a table while the youngest guy on the crew eats breakfast. He gets dragged out on game days and tied with his hands behind his back and a gag in his mouth so he can be passed around while the men sit on the couch, watching the game and fucking his face. One time, being hustled back to his room, he sees someone's taped a sign to his door that just says "Fucktoy", and feels the shame coil in his gut. 

Sometimes he goes along with it, hopelessly. Some days he struggles. Some of them like that, he learns, so he tries not to do it with those guys, until they figure it out and start hurting him until he twitches. Others don't like him struggling, want him to go along, silently, and those guys will beat him or hurt him until he's obedient, so it's all the same, he realises, eventually.

All the guys, he learns, have different preferences. Drew likes to be gentle with him physically, but he runs his mouth cruelly, telling Don what a good hole he is, how fun it is to have something to fuck whenever he feels like, how hard it makes him knowing Don hates every minute of it. Ricky likes to choke him, stuffing his dick down Don's throat; Arty likes fucking him while Ricky's choking him, because it makes Don struggle and tighten. Ricky and Arty turn out to be a package deal, and one day Arty suggests both of them fucking Don at a time. 

"No," Don says, involuntarily - he's almost stopped saying no by now - and of course that makes both of them smile. Arty grins at him, and grabs him, and drags him out of his room and over to the filthy couch. 

"Sit down, Ricky," he suggests, and Ricky, grinning, does, unzipping his pants. "Now, Donny, why don't you get Ricky hard?"

Don shakes his head as Arty forces him to his knees in front of Ricky, but opens his mouth reluctantly. Ricky holds his soft cock in one hand and takes a fistful of Don's hair, then drags Don's mouth over his cock. It tastes faintly dirty, and Don gags, but Ricky doesn't care; when his dick's in Don's mouth he puts both his hands in Don's hair and forces him to stay down, gagging and struggling to breathe as Ricky's cock gets harder and harder in his mouth. 

It would be so easy to bite if he wasn't so fucking terrified of what they'd do to him.

He's squirming by the time Ricky lets him up, drooling and crying, an involuntary reaction from the gagged. Ricky pats his face. "What a mess," he says, and Arty gets Don by the arms and drags him up. 

"Now you're going to ride Ricky," he tells Don, and the two of them position Don over Ricky's dick and force him down. There's no prep, just the a painful slide in; Don's faintly grateful for the lubrication he left behind choking on Ricky's dick, but it's not much, and it keeps not being much as Ricky starts bouncing his hips, fucking Don enthusiastically. 

"Never getting sick of this bitch," Ricky says conversationally to Arty between thrusts. "He's so fucking tight."

"He's going to get tighter," Arty promises. "Hold still for a sec," and Don feels Arty come up behind him, press up against his back. 

Don starts to struggle; Ricky backhands him. "Stay still and you'll be fine," he tells him. "Struggle … who knows?"

Arty laughs into Don's ear as Don goes still, frightened. "That's right," he says, and Don starts feeling him pressing up against his abused hole. "Just stay still and take it," and then he's pressing inside and Don's crying out, because it hurts, it hurts so fucking much, hurts like the first time, it hurts more than he'd realised his ass could hurt at this point. "Please," he says, "Please, no," but Arty's relentless, and he can't get away. 

*

After that it happens regularly, but it never stops hurting. Don never stops being terrified he's going to be ripped apart. 

Nige is the guy who likes to run his mouth. He's not as clever as Drew, not as cerebral, Don supposes. He calls Don names, mainly. Fuckhole and fucktoy, cunt, fleshlight, hole, dirty, bitch, whore, toy, Nige gets to them all, panting, hammering away at Don's hole. Don's pretty sure Nige put the sign on the door. One day Nige gives Don a sharpie, makes Don write names all over himself. "Say them," Nige says. "Say, 'I'm a fucktoy,' or you won't like what I'll do to you." Don can't do it at first, so Nige gets out a car battery and hooks him up to that until he's screaming, begging for it to stop. 

"Say it," Nige says, and turns the electricity up. "Say it and I'll stop," and Don does.

Billy likes to play with Don like he's a pet. He speaks some other language, something Don doesn't recognise, and starts training Don to respond to it, to sit, or to open his mouth, or to present himself for fucking, or to kneel. They've learned the kinds of pain he doesn't like at this point; Don ends up learning quickly, and Billy holds a little party to demonstrate Don's tricks to the rest of the guys.

When he's rolled over and begged, played dead, gotten on his knees with his mouth open like he's begging to suck cock, crawled on hands and knees with ass up wiggling it to get fucked, Luke takes over and shows the rest of them his favourite thing to do, which is to fuck Don's ass with anything handy. He starts with a pen, then a beer bottle, just the neck at first. He works up from that to a broom handle, then a pool cue, then a baseball bat as they jeer. Don screams as the handle pops in, as Luke forces it into him, feeling it getting thicker and thicker. They're still laughing. 

*

He guesses he gets less interesting after that, though, like he's reached some sort of pinnacle of shame and simply doesn't care any more what happens to him. He's learned what they all like, avoiding beatings more often than he doesn't. He wriggles for the guys who want him to wriggle, lies still for the guys who want to fuck him like an object, is generally, according to Drew, boringly well-trained. 

"I guess it's time to get rid of you," Drew says, with a sigh, pulling out and coming all over Don. "You've been great, though," he says, patting Don's ass. "Really lasted a lot longer than any of our other pets. Good job," and he leaves Don lying on the mattress. 

Finally, Don thinks. Finally it'll end, and he sleeps soundly, wakes up relieved until they start discussing how they're going to get rid of him and Drew proposes putting him in the river still alive. "Think about it," Drew says. "In the bag with bricks, but alive. We could probably see him wriggling around for a while. 

"No," he says, involuntarily, and then curses himself as they all look at him. Nige kicks him; everyone else just smiles, and then they're grabbing him, and he's struggling, but it's useless, useless, and soon he's in a heavy sack that's knotted shut, feet lashed to heavy weights, and they're hefting him and dumping him in the trunk of a car as he struggles, and the car is moving.

He struggles until he can't any more, and then lies there, panting, trying not to cry because he knows they'll just enjoy it, until he hears gunfire, and the car squeals to a halt. He freezes, listening as hard as he can. More gunfire. Shouting. Gunfire. And - a police siren, and Don lets himself hope, just for a second, and then for a few more seconds.

It's probably only minutes before the gunfire stops and the shouting ceases, but it feels like hours, and then someone's popping the trunk and Don's tensing up all over. Is it - it could - but someone's fumbling with the sack, and someone is saying, "Just fucking cut it open, here," and then he's blinking up, looking up out of the trunk at faces silhouetted in front of yellow street lights, and Kim's saying, "Don - Don, we've got you. You're safe."

"You're the best thing I've ever seen," Don says, sincerely, and lets himself be lifted out of the trunk.


End file.
